tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-115423652017-09-24T17:18:56.701-07:00Writing Down the WordsPaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.comBlogger566125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-3108744934121365542017-09-04T13:38:00.000-07:002017-09-04T13:38:37.683-07:00Flying
The
plane gathers speed on the runway, lifts and banks, making a deal with gravity.
Green rushes by the windows in a blur. Sunlight glints off the wings, trees and
houses grow smaller and smaller, roadways stretch long and black, like thick
lines drawn with a carpenter’s pencil. Buildings flatten out, lose their three
dimensional quality, becoming pop-ups in a child's book.
Go up high Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-22455239854977425772017-08-25T03:52:00.001-07:002017-08-25T03:52:38.310-07:00Mirror, Mirror
On
the northwest wall of my little cottage hangs a large gilt-framed mirror. It is
round and slightly convex, so that if you peer into it, your face appears
distorted. It used to hang above the fireplace in the house where I grew up,
reflecting our daily comings and goings. I could stand in the kitchen doorway
and see in duplicate my father in his green chair, my mother at the kitchen
sinkPaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-29184171267640189022017-08-18T12:13:00.001-07:002017-08-18T12:15:52.048-07:00Making Choices
Making Choices
There
are times when the going gets so rough we have little choice but to go ahead on our own definition of faith. An illness befalls us, a death separates us, our safety or security is threatened, we lose what we hold most
dear. We look around for something to hold onto and there’s nothing solid,
nothing permanent - only the beliefs we’ve built into our lives to save us Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-6022331581570298572017-08-15T03:59:00.000-07:002017-08-15T08:07:22.745-07:00
A Life of Walking
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Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-60115947429391377382017-04-30T14:24:00.000-07:002017-04-30T14:24:38.158-07:00Between Words and Birds
When things go
wrong, I always seek solace in two places – out of doors or in the pages of
books (and in recent years, online). The beauty I find in one and the wisdom I
find in the other have never failed me.
April has been a
month of sadness. I attended a memorial for a beloved cousin’s wife, learned
that my son-in-law’s stepfather had only weeks to live, and was shocked by a
friend’s Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-80211958505090607842017-04-30T05:24:00.000-07:002017-08-15T12:02:56.740-07:00
I came to an apple tree
on my walk last night.
A fresh breeze blew across the pond
setting the boughs dancing.
The faces of the open blossoms
laughed in the evening sun
and held fast to the tiny buds.
Up and own they bobbed
as merry as children at play.
They would not stay still for the camera,
so when I looked later at the photos
all I could see was a blur
of pink and white Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-45679537848116732272017-01-29T08:30:00.001-08:002017-01-29T08:30:34.950-08:00Counter-News
The small birds in my yard
singing
are not aware of world events
unless on some subliminal level
I cannot perceive.
They sing regardless,
not immune to the frozen sleet
that blankets the grass,
not indifferent to the murky clouds
hanging on the horizon,
not unaware of the taciturn cold,
and not in spite or because of—
they sing because it’s what they do;
the chickadee in flitPaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-15268556621992865432017-01-14T07:50:00.000-08:002017-01-14T09:14:13.617-08:00Lessons
My morning walk took me to the Mill Pond dam, where water from the pond poured in torrents over the stone edge, crashing onto the rocks below - a death drop for anything other than water and slippery fish. As I stood and watched, the water leapt up and hurried downstream. Always the same rocks, never the same water, I thought, watching as the current hustled masses of bubbles past the banks.
Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-17310076543198677522017-01-02T08:06:00.001-08:002017-01-02T08:06:29.451-08:00Still Lives
Me and my camera
the giant blue sky
the endless circle of horizon
the great mound of the mountain
stolid behind tapering trees
the far shore of the pond
the water, ice crusted and still,
the jumble of roadside brush
full of chittering finches
the one oak leaf that would not let go
the soft cap of snow in an abandoned nest
the fragile ice on Queen Anne’s lace
the drop of frozenPaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-82934949884507497712016-11-21T16:59:00.001-08:002016-11-21T17:00:04.690-08:00What I Know
All that is uncertain beneath our feet,
all that we assume is bedrock—
an unshakeable foundation—
is really hope,
nebulous, alluring, beguiling hope.
Hope that somewhere in all the wrong
there is right,
in all that is terrifying
there is a moment of peace,
that the possibility of beauty
lies in every eye that beholds.
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<!--[if gte mso 9]>Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-42663362468060191522016-11-12T16:39:00.001-08:002016-11-12T19:36:54.774-08:00My Aching Heart
A Dark Time
This is not the first time the fabric of my family has been ruptured by politics. The American revolution pitted a 7th great uncle against his own great nephew. The uncle fought on the side of the Patriots, his great nephew joined a British regiment in Canada. Mid-way through the strife, the nephew's family was driven from their New York home, their property was seized, and they Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-59468213315883349402016-10-17T07:12:00.000-07:002016-10-17T07:14:19.266-07:00Sunday Morning Write - Freefall
I cup the morning in my hands -
the sun rising on the back of the rooster’s blare,
the grass growing straight out to the barn
where a black cat explores the known world.
I hold the whispery sound of wings overhead
and the silly dither of earthbound hens.
Crow feathers slip through my fingers.
Red leaves, and orange,
green leaves and yellow crowd my fingertips.
Wisps of soft air Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-38021448388948958362016-10-09T05:59:00.002-07:002016-10-09T05:59:39.655-07:00Sunday Morning Write: A Memory From the Week Past.
The phone rang at seven on Thursday. A small voice at the
other end of the line said, “Can you come back, Nini? I miss you. I want you to
put me to bed.”
I felt my heart contract and expand simultaneously. Even if
I could see to drive at night and even if I did drive the hour to that small
voice, she’d be sound asleep by the time I arrived. I’d be unnecessary.
I talked to her instead.Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-84562356335977820722016-09-25T06:05:00.000-07:002016-09-26T07:13:18.702-07:00A Kind of Prayer
This Sunday's writing prompt: in light of the current climate - political, economic, social - make a list of synonyms for worry. Then make a list of antonyms. From that let a poem arise. The results are below.
synonyms for worry
fret
agonize
dwelling on the negative
stew
brood
distress
anxiety
unease
concern
tension
stress
perplexity
misgiving
thoughts of impending trouble
Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-24269435709701854832016-08-21T06:45:00.002-07:002016-08-21T06:47:50.049-07:00Sunday Morning Write
Sunday morning write with friend. Prompt: If you were to check a crowd for your mother, how would you recognize her? How would she recognize you? From that writing, extract a poem.
Checking a Crowd for My Mother
She wore her hair the same way all her life, in a sausage
roll at her neck. Even when styles changed and short hair became de rigueur,
she would affix the rolled net at the Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-27023959014989951072016-08-07T04:17:00.002-07:002016-08-07T04:17:32.823-07:00Change Is In the Air
After a spate of hot summer days when the humidity hung in the air like steam, there came a storm riding on a rush of wind. Rain fell in torrents. Lightning exploded, and crashing in its wake, thunder boomed and rolled away across a greenish-purple sky. After the storm, there was a new coolness to the air.
The seasons are in transition now; summer is on the wane. The sun sets earlier and Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-8547464059608749092016-06-08T14:48:00.000-07:002016-06-08T15:56:47.937-07:00Fallen Angel
Fallen Angel Food Cake
I remember a time when my mother, then in her sixties, made a cake and it flopped. "I just can't seem to cook anymore," she sighed and I thought to myself, "Sure you can. Just get a mix and bake that." Mama would have thought it poor advice. She'd never used a mix for anything. She'd been brought up making everything from scratch. Well, it's my turn now and I can Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-82870129544171171972016-04-25T16:59:00.001-07:002016-05-21T17:16:01.128-07:00
The Offering
Outside my door grows a lilac
planted 86 years ago,
a venerable tree, gnarled with age,
leaning so close to the ground
that it would lie flat
if it were not propped up by sticks.
Every year it blooms.
It puts out leaves and blossoms,
fewer and fewer each spring
but still, there they are,
green and purple, soft and scented,
and I cannot bear the thought,
a Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-81106629524084341582016-02-28T09:43:00.004-08:002016-02-28T09:46:59.832-08:00
Sunday morning prompt - write to this quote:
"Once in his life a man ought to
concentrate his mind upon the remembered earth. He ought to give himself up to
a particular landscape in his experience; to look at it from as many angles as
he can, to wonder upon it, to dwell upon it.
He ought to imagine that he
touches it with his hands at every season and listens to the sounds that are
made Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-47852314988542631852016-02-07T06:42:00.000-08:002016-02-07T06:42:09.966-08:00
This has been a fairly snow-less winter so far. One Sunday morning writing prompt, however, dealt with the white stuff. Here's the result.
Write 12 ways of looking at snow.
One
an arbitrator between autumn and spring
keeping storm scores and stats on plummeting temperatures
Two
a cat burglar sneaking in on a passing cold front,
stealing color, hiding the tricycle and the dog’s Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-83693287938111762632015-12-07T06:35:00.001-08:002015-12-07T06:35:31.349-08:00Morning Report From My Western Window
There is a window in my bedroom wall that faces west through
which, when I am inside looking out, I can see the rise of a mountain, its
flanks like bits of blue paint splashed between the trees that grow close to
the house. At this time of year, late autumn, the ground is papered brown with
fallen leaves and every branch and twig is gilded by the early morning
sunlight. Through bare branchesPaulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-42037560404191602302015-11-29T07:16:00.000-08:002015-12-06T16:31:38.170-08:00When the Geese Go
Written on a blue paper sky,
late autumn sentences are spelled out with twigs,
punctuated by small, black birds.
A sketch of leafless trees,
colored-pencil straight,
line up in shades of gray and brown.
Tales of a winter hillside,
an ice-skimmed pond,
geese listening for their cue
to close the book,
leaving silence and snow
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Sunday morning prompt: Wake up some part of your participation in nature – what
will please you when you go out there, what will delight you, what is offered –
use all senses.
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Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-45531648395633485612015-11-01T07:13:00.002-08:002015-11-02T04:09:31.535-08:00Month of Losses, Month of Gains
November is the spare season.
Nature’s bones show
in the ribbed rocks
and naked hardwoods.
Color blows down
as scattered leaves,
leeches into the soil,
in monochromatic brown.
Warmth lingers in hidden places,
in corners and deep grasses,
close to the earth
where roots gather.
Trees are stripped and polished
by wind and sun,
the sky scoured by energetic rain,
cloud Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11542365.post-86617993124430332702015-10-19T09:52:00.001-07:002015-10-19T19:32:12.641-07:00Bubbles
Part of the 90+ acres donated in memory of my friend's parents.
I write with a friend on Sunday mornings. She calls with a
prompt, we write for half an hour and then I call her and we read aloud to each
other what we’ve written. This morning’s prompt was to think about how we heal
our hearts. I think we do it with our stories. Yesterday I attended a
dedication of some land donated to my Paulinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14555472024981357622noreply@blogger.com7